


What Do You Want From Me (It's Not How It Used To Be)

by denorios



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-11
Updated: 2010-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denorios/pseuds/denorios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-ep thingy for 'Sins of the Past'</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Do You Want From Me (It's Not How It Used To Be)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks are due in abundance to my truly awesome beta slavelabour, who held my hand, mopped my brow and stopped the commas from taking over - darlin', you are the best.

The noise of the saloon is no louder than usual, but tonight it grates on Vin, batters at his eardrums and disrupts his balance. The shouts from the drunken cowhands, the occasional gunshot that makes all seven of them tense, the tinny sound of the out-of-tune piano, the dull clink of bottle against glass, the chink of the coins that are rapidly accumulating on Ezra's side of the table, it's all too much. His head aches and he can't concentrate on the cards in his hand.

He can feel Chris' eyes on him. He always can. Chris' steady gaze has a weight and a presence that's usually welcome, that even makes him feel safe and wanted, but tonight Vin feels too visible, too much on display. The events of the past few days have worn him thin, and he just wants to hide away and sleep.

Most of the time he doesn't miss his old life, his enforced rootlessness; most of the time he recognizes that this life, this town, these men are worth the loss of that freedom. But there are nights like tonight when every fiber of his body yearns to be on horseback, out in the darkness, on the open range, under the distant stars, alone and untrammeled. He's not Vin Tanner in the darkness; his name is lost in the wind that rips at his clothing and snarls his hair, that name that is both his gift and his curse, which will probably always be his curse now Eli Joe is dead and with him any hope of proving his innocence.

Vin throws his cards down with a sigh that is half snarl and stands abruptly, pushing his chair back so hard it topples over. "I'm done," he says, and knocks back his last dregs of whiskey. "Iffen I lose any more money, I'll be fightin' the dogs for gutter scraps."

Ezra looks up at him and grins, the glimmer of gold in his smile catching the light suddenly. "But my good Mr. Tanner," he drawls, "the night is so young." Beside him, Buck snorts and looks up from his own cards and across the table, as always, Chris is silent and watchful.

"The night may be but I ain't gettin' no younger sittin' here losin' my shirt to you," Vin retorts. Ezra's gaze flickers over Vin's dusty sweat-stained shirt and his lip curls slightly, his disgust ill-disguised.

All of a sudden there's a strained tension in the air, an uneasy silence that swirls around Vin's slender form, and Chris is not the only one watching Vin carefully. Ezra's eyes flick sideways to Buck, across to Chris, catch the quick narrowing of Vin's eyes, the slow tightness in his fists, and whatever glib reply he was preparing dies unspoken. There's a quick temper lurking behind that calm facade, a slow smoldering burn ready to flare up at any moment, and Vin's as dangerous a man as any one of them when he needs to be.

Vin taps his finger against the brim of his hat in farewell and turns away. His skin is crawling, his muscles are quivering, and he has an overwhelming urge to smash his fist repeatedly into something soft and yielding. Ezra's face would have done just fine and he knows if he'd stayed a moment longer he'd have had something else to regret in the morning.

He clenches his fists tighter, feels his nails dig into the soft flesh of his palms, bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. This sudden rage feels like a towering wave, suspended over him, ready to crash and sweep him away. It scares him. He's felt like this before, poised in the moment between breaths, and one way lies death and the other way lies freedom. When he feels like this he almost wonders if maybe he did kill Jess Kincaid. When he feels like this he knows he could have.

"Vin."

Chris' voice behind him is as soft and cool as the night air against his skin and Vin stands for a moment in the street outside the saloon, eyes closed, breathing in and out, counting each breath for a long minute. He can sense Chris behind him now, feel the warmth of his body, the solid bulk of him at his back. He didn't hear him move, didn't hear the swing of the saloon doors as Chris came out behind him. That scares him too, that his anger can overwhelm his senses so much, leave him blind and deaf and vulnerable.

"I'm alright," Vin says, keeping his back to Chris. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. It's an effort to force his fists to unclench but he does so slowly. "You git back to the game."

There's a sudden shout from the saloon behind them, the sound of breaking glass and a burst of uproarious laughter. Vin jerks around at the noise, his hand instinctively dropping to his holster and beside him Chris does the same. Chris relaxes first, huffing a quiet laugh to himself, and glances sideways at Vin. His hand is still gripping the butt of his gun, the knuckles white and taut, and his eyes are wild and unfocused.

"Vin." Chris steps forward and covers Vin's hand with his own. "Vin, it's alright. It's nothing."

Every muscle in Vin's body is trembling in a fight-or-flight reaction, and he doesn't know what the hell's wrong with him. He's so angry tonight, so damn angry, and he doesn't even know why. Chris is looking at him intently, his gaze sharp and concerned, his hand still covering Vin's on the butt of the gun. He can surely feel the shake of Vin's hand as the adrenaline pumps through him but his level gaze betrays no sign of it.

"Vin," he says again, and Vin heaves a long sigh and slips his hand from beneath Chris'. For one absurd moment he misses the warmth of it, the softness of Chris' skin against his, the familiar texture of the calluses on Chris' palm and fingers. Chris is talking to him gently, quietly, like he's some kind of skittish horse or frightened child, and the thought makes Vin laugh briefly.

"I'm fine, Chris," Vin repeats and waves a hand in the direction of the saloon behind them. "You git on back. I ain't no fit company tonight."

"I can see that," Chris grins and nudges Vin with his shoulder lightly. "Figured I'd come on out here and let you take a swing at the one you're really mad at."

That gets Vin's attention and he looks sharply at the man beside him. Chris is standing lightly beside him, balancing on the balls of his feet, all elegance and danger and muscle. His dark clothes melt into the shadows, the light from the saloon catching the glint of studs and belt buckle and the whites of his eyes. He grins suddenly and his teeth are a flash of brightness in the dark.

"I ain't mad at you." And he isn't, he'd swear he isn't. This all-encompassing rage that's sweeping through him, making him want to holler and swear and shoot holes in the clouds and anyone stupid enough to come near him, it's not directed at Chris.

"That so?" Chris steps forward again until he's up in Vin's space, faces inches apart, so close Vin can feel each breath as it leaves Chris' mouth, so close it feels like they're sharing breaths. "I killed Eli Joe, Vin. Your one shot at gettin' your name cleared, and I took it from you. I killed him. Seems to me you should be mad at me."

Chris' lips tighten as though he's holding something else in and he leans back slightly, just enough for the light to fall on Vin's face. They're still close, touching at hip and chest and thigh, so close Vin hopes no-one chooses this moment to walk out of the saloon and see something he'd have trouble explaining.

"I'm sorry, Vin," Chris sighs, and it's like a lucifer to blasting powder in his brain, Chris Larabee of all people apologizing. The pain and fury overwhelms him and he explodes, bringing both hands up to Chris' chest and shoving him back forcefully. Chris staggers back several paces, his heel catching on the bottom saloon step, and he has to grab at the wooden rail to keep himself upright. His eyes are locked on Vin's and there's a flicker of something, not danger, not anger, something sad and hurtful, but Vin's too consumed by his emotions to see it clearly.

Vin's chest is heaving now, he can hardly catch his breath to speak, and there's something dark and awful in his voice as he chokes out, "You're sorry? You? Chris fuckin' Larabee? When in the hell were you ever sorry fer somethin' you done?"

Chris straightens up and takes a step towards Vin, mouth half-open to speak, but Vin turns away, waving a hand at Chris in dismissal. He stalks down the alley beside the saloon, still fighting for every breath. The livery is just up the street, he needs to get Peso and just ride out of town, ride until he can't stay in the saddle, ride until the sun comes up, and maybe he can leave this choking, strangled pain behind him in the dust.

But there's a hand on his arm pulling him back and he spins around, fist flying, and the crunch of bone and blood is so satisfying he hates himself. Chris is on the ground at his feet and Vin finds himself stooping over him, fist pulled back and ready, yelling words he never thought he'd say, not to Chris. Not to Chris, not to the man who didn't just save his life but gave him life, gave him a reason and a purpose and a home, gave him friends and a family of sorts, gave him friendship and acceptance and trust, and never asked for anything in return except his freedom.

"I didn't want this, you hear me?" He grabs the front of Chris' shirt and shakes him hard. Chris is passive, yielding, his dirty blonde hair falling in his eyes, blood streaming from his nose, and this isn't right, this isn't Chris. There's something happening here, that flicker in Chris' eyes again, and he can't figure it out.

"This fuckin'...this town, this life, it ain't me. I didn't come here looking for this. I didn't _want_ this! Why the hell are you keepin' me here? What do you want from me?" He shakes Chris again, both hands fisted in his shirt, crouched low over him. The lack of response just makes him angrier; he wants Chris to fight back, wants him to come up swinging, wants Chris to make him bleed, make him pay. But Chris is silent. His hands lift and curl around Vin's wrists, not pushing him back, not pulling him off, just holding on.

"It was my business," Vin spits, "my mess. You shouldn'a had any part in it. You coulda been killed, Chris." He gags suddenly, a picture of Chris' broken body in his mind, the blood and the dirt and the dust, and it's so similar to what he sees in front of him that he feels sick. He closes his eyes for a moment and fights back the nausea. Chris dead and his fault. All his fault, because he was too weak to leave.

"I should never have stayed in this damn town."

The muscles in his fingers cramp suddenly and he rears back, dropping Chris to the dust. Chris props himself up on one hand, brings the other up to wipe his bloody face. He looks at the blood on his fingers dispassionately and then wipes them off on his shirt. The blood hardly shows on the black fabric but Vin knows it's there, knows he puts it there, and the thought pains him.

"Why won't you let me go, Chris?" Vin's voice is thick with tears he'll never shed and he can't bear it anymore, he just can't bear the weight of it all.

He slumps to his knees, all the fight gone, suddenly so weary. His shoulders bow and his head hangs, so low it's almost resting on Chris' shoulder. He wishes for a moment he could just lay down and die but it feels like a blessing he doesn't deserve. He tangles his hands in Chris' shirt again, pulling at it, rubbing at the smear of blood. He can feel Chris' heart pulsing beneath his shirt, the rhythmn of it matching his own. He and Chris have always been in step, in sync, side by side, moving and thinking as one. It's Chris Vin can't leave, not the town. It's Chris that keeps him here, day after day, when he's knows he should leave, knows staying will just bring more death and danger down on their heads.

A light touch startles Vin and he lifts his head. Chris is looking at him, his eyes bright and keen and so warm Vin can hardly bear to hold his gaze. That flicker he saw earlier is now a steady light and in it he can see all the things neither of them will ever say aloud. He wants to look away, tries to look away, but Chris' hand slips down the side of his face, cups his chin and forces Vin to meet his eyes.

"I ain't keepin' you here, Vin," Chris says, and somehow the firm grip on his chin has turned into a caress and Chris is cradling his face so gently. "I ain't keepin' you. You wanna ride out of here right now, you can go, I ain't stoppin' you." He pats Vin's cheek softly and grins, the blood in his smile turning Vin's stomach. "But you ride outta here and I'm ridin' with you. You leave me behind and I'm followin' you. You try and lose me, I'm just gonna ride around all aimless until I find you again. You ain't gettin' rid of me so easy."

Vin lets out a breath that is half-laugh, half-sob and lurches forward, his hand cupping the back of Chris' neck and bringing their foreheads together. In the darkness of the alley all he can see is Chris' eyes and his bloody smile, but he can feel him, feel the warmth of his body, the whiskey-sour tang of his breath against his face, the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck. Every bit of him is precious to Vin and he cannot understand how he could ever have struck this man in anger.

"You're sayin' I'm stuck with you?" he croaks, his throat tight and constricted with all the words he wants to say, and Chris nods against Vin's forehead. His nose brushes Vin's cheek as he moves and it's suddenly so intimate Vin has to close his eyes. He could just turn his head so slightly, Chris' mouth is right there and...

He pulls back, shifts to the side and slumps in the dirt next to Chris, his back up against the wooden slats of the saloon. There's too much in his head right now, too much loss and confusion and anger, and he knows he's not thinking straight. There's something between them, alright, he's no fool and he can see it in Chris' eyes, but now isn't the time.

They sit in companionable silence in the darkness and the dirt and the sound of the night surrounds them. Vin knows, as sure as he knows his own name, that Chris is listening intently for the sound of their friends' laughter amongst the general cacophony of the saloon - Buck's belly laugh, Josiah's sudden roar, Nathan's quiet guffaws, JD's slightly hesitant giggle, Ezra's knowing chuckles - assuring himself that all is well, that his people are safe. All of his people, including the man still heaving shuddering breaths at his side.

"Why?" Vin asks, his voice breaking the stillness that envelopes them. He leans his head back against the wooden boards behind them, eyes seeking out the distant stars above, and then looks sideways at Chris. Chris' own head is tilted towards Vin and his forehead brushes against Vin's tangled curls as he moves.

"I lost Adam and Sarah," Chris says, his voice hoarse as though speaking has suddenly become something painful and unfamiliar and he blinks rapidly. "And I wasn't there." His voice hardens and he reaches for Vin's hand, holds it tight. "I ain't makin' that mistake with you. You hear me?" His grip hurts but Vin can hardly feel it. Chris' gaze is boring into him and all he can hear is Chris' voice and the pounding of his own heart.

"I ain't makin' that mistake again," Chris continues. "Maybe I can't save you. I don't know what's gonna happen, shot down, strung up. But I ain't gonna be left behind wonderin' if there was somethin' I coulda done."

"Even if it means you swingin' next to me?" The thought of Chris Larabee swinging from a hangman's noose chokes Vin; that bright hair and cocky grin, that long lean body, the rough speech and warm heart, all that grace and power, snuffed out like a candle. He turns his face into Chris' shoulder, his free hand groping across their bodies to grab at Chris' shirt. "I can't do that…Chris, I can't…"

"Even that," Chris promises. "You ain't gonna die alone, Vin Tanner. It ain't gonna happen." Chris ducks his head to rub his cheek against Vin's, their stubble rasping painfully. "Even if I gotta stick to you like a damn burr under your saddle. You ain't gettin' rid of me."

Silence falls between them again. Vin couldn't speak if he tried, his throat too full of feeling. He presses his face harder into Chris, feels him bring his hand up to cradle Vin's head against his shoulder. There's a whisper in his hair that can only be Chris' lips pressing soft kisses into the tangled mess and the tenderness of it nearly brings tears to his eyes. It's almost too much to bear; his emotions are so jumbled and raw and he doesn't even know how to begin to figure this all out.

Vin has always been comfortable with silence, at home in it. It's what he knows best. He's never been one to fill up an empty space with mindless chatter but right now he'd give anything to hear JD tell one of his awful jokes, to have Josiah recite Biblical quotes, to listen to Buck flirting with one of his endless procession of potential conquests, anything to fill up this endless pause, this sudden calm filled with unspoken words and fraught emotions.

Whatever is happening between he and Chris - and something is happening, he knows that, something is changing between them here tonight, has already changed - he can't think on it right now. His thoughts are jerking and stuttering, whirling madly in his brain, and he can't make them quiet.

And Chris, as always, saves him.

He pats Vin on the head gently, his fingers tangled in Vin's hair, pulls his own head back and arches his back. "So," he says. "I thought you weren't-" He stops and spits a gobbet of blood into the dust beside him, starts again. "Thought you weren't mad at me?"

Vin snorts and he can feel Chris laughing softly beside him, can feel his shoulder shaking underneath his cheek. It feels good, feels like a benediction. "Maybe I was a little bit," he admits sheepishly, shrugging slightly. He lifts his head to look at Chris, their faces inches apart, and smiles.

"Just a little bit, huh?" Chris rubs his bruised jaw ruefully. "You wanna warn me when you're really mad then?"

"I warned you to leave me alone," Vin retorts, pushing himself to his feet and holding out a hand to help Chris up. He heaves him to his feet, both of them groaning slightly as stiff muscles protest, and moves to let go. Chris holds on, gripping his hand tightly. "Chris?" Vin starts, and Chris pulls him in a close embrace, his arms wrapping around Vin tight enough to choke off his breath.

Vin stands rigid for a moment, his arms hanging at his sides. Chris' chin is tucked into Vin's neck and he's making no move to let go. One hand moves leisurely up and down his back in a soothing motion and Vin slowly relaxes into the embrace. He presses his face into Chris' shoulder again, one hand rises to grip the back of Chris' neck and he mutters, "People will talk." Not that he cares. The whole town could be standing by, talking and whispering, and wild horses couldn't pull him from this spot, from Chris' arms.

"Let 'em," Chris grunts softly, grinning to himself.

"I ain't sorry," he says, shaking his head slightly, his temple rubbing against Vin's. "I'd do it again. Your name might be more important to you than your life, but it ain't to me. And this ain't over, we ain't beat yet. We'll figure somethin' out, you and me."

"I know," Vin sighs. "It's alright." And he thinks that maybe, just maybe he is too.

He pulls out of Chris' embrace, his hand trailing down Chris' neck lingeringly before falling to rest at his side. They both pause for a moment, Chris watching Vin, Vin listening to the slow beat of his heart, remembering the sound of the echoing pulse in Chris' own chest. It's all he can hear now, that steady rhythm, the soft whisper of Chris' breath across his ear, the gentle scratch of Chris' fingers in his hair. He'll hear that, feel that when he sleeps tonight, when he sleeps every night. His thoughts are suddenly blessedly silent, and this is all he needs right now, all he cares to need.

"Yeah? Y'ain't gonna punch me again?"

"Nah, you're safe."

"Well then." Chris slings an arm around Vin's shoulders, a careless friendly embrace betrayed only by the slight trail of his fingers across the nape of Vin's neck, and turns them both in the direction of the saloon. "I don't know 'bout you but all this talk has worked me up a powerful thirst. How 'bout we go back and try and steal some of your money back off'a Ezra?"


End file.
